The Burial: A Child’s Happy Place

A gentle breeze cut through the warming temperatures of the summer morning, rustling the leaves in the surrounding trees and carrying the English accents of passersby. The jovial mix of children’s shouts and running feet swirled through the air as the rising sun spread its light over the swing set, roundabout, monkey bars, and tombstones.

Yes, tombstones. In St. John’s Wood, London, there is a quaint little playground for children known as The Burial. Most would find such an ominous name for a children’s playground horrific, but The Burial is thus called due to the tombstones that mark the graves of those who are buried in the same lot. As if something out of a Poe story or a Hitchcock film, happy children cavort with the excited feeling of eternal youth, while centuries-old graves line their paths.

I cannot quite recall the very first time that I entered The Burial and played for several blissful hours, but some of my first recollections of such enjoyment take me back to the age of six or so. Having a British mother whose family still lived in England, though she had years ago moved to America, I had the splendid fortune since birth of visiting all of my overseas kin every two years on family trips. The Burial was always one of my favorite places to visit in London, and not simply because I was a typical kid who liked to spin around on playground equipment to the point of nausea.

Even at a young age, I recognized that The Burial was certainly different than any other playground in which I had been in America, and that I would probably never see in my own country a place where I could have a fabulously carefree playtime whilst surrounded by the remnants of the dead. I didn’t think the youth-death dichotomy strange or unsettling. In fact, I loved the whole concept of forgotten tombstones that peeked out from history’s time line and overgrown blades of grass to watch the next generation enjoy the simpler aspects of life.

Now, I should state that I have always had an overwhelming adoration with the darker side of life, even as a child. I think cemeteries are wonderful places in which to spend a quiet afternoon, and I’ve never found death to be frightening. I’m sure you're now thinking Oh, well, that explains it (and I will concede that you kind of have a point there); but I would like to point out that I was not the only one enjoying my childhood at The Burial. Perhaps some of the other children were not as enamored as I by the surrounding graves, and many of them probably didn’t even take notice that Great-Great-Great Uncle Thaddeus was lying six feet under their stomping feet. Nonetheless, to all who were passing time there – children, parents, Thaddeus – The Burial was truly a delightful spot in the heart of London.

Yet, I cannot imagine someone in America today giving the green light to build a playground in a lot that also happens to contain some abandoned graves. In fact, the visual of swarms of soccer moms hastily grabbing picket signs from their minivans and SUVs seems a vivid and impending reality if the notion were even raised. But why?

I tend to think that such a reaction would be derived from America’s unhealthy fear of death, and I don’t mean in the sense of an individual person thinking I don’t want to die. Current American culture in general seems to take all possible steps to pretend that humans can stop the aging process, and to ignore the fact that death is an inevitable reality. Madison Avenue peddles anti-aging creams in an effort to erase the physical manifestations of time’s forward journey, and modern science creates machines to keep us breathing long after our bodies have abandoned the fight to continue. Some people have even had their corpses cryogenically frozen, so that they perhaps may be brought back to life at some point in the future. It’s as if there’s some sort of collective denial about or refutation of death’s existence perpetually looming over American culture.

Ignoring one of the only guarantees life offers, however, creates a larger breeding ground for the fear. Whether we regularly acknowledge it or not, we all know that, short of Dracula’s existence being proven and him biting each of us into immortality, death will at some point arrive knocking at our door. And no amount of locks can keep him from entering. While dealing with death is certainly never easy, particularly when losing a loved one, the plastic living world we’ve created to shield ourselves from the reality makes it even more difficult to confront our fear and accept death’s puissant and interminable existence in all our lives.

As science has helped to lengthen the average person’s life, society’s ability to cope with death has weakened, and perhaps that’s because we don’t have to meet life’s nemesis on a daily basis. The human mind and spirit accumulate a greater strength and resolve when faced with constant battles; reduce the number of battles and some of the strength and resolve will dissipate. By extension, perhaps the fact that present American society does not find itself relentlessly enshrouded by death is precisely what compels us to maintain the denial. After all, we’re no longer living in an age where five out of your six children are likely to die; or living to your late 50s makes you ancient; or giving your child a book about a little girl being burned in a fire to help teach about death is common practice (and yes, there was such a book).

It’s been a few centuries since grand invitations were delivered for funerals like party invitations are disseminated today. ‘Twas longer ago still that small children created and sang “Ring Around the Roses,” as the bodies of the plague victims literally piled up throughout the cities and towns. While I don’t think anyone wants a devastating plague to help narrow the gap between death and of our acceptance of it, perhaps places like The Burial are a nice middle ground; a sort of interactive meeting place for those just starting out in life and those whose gravestones recount the lives they once lived. Maybe a careful concoction of the living world mixed with the shadows of death will enable us to vanquish our seemingly eternal state of denial.

At the very least, we can be certain that America’s disposition towards the final sleep will continue to morph and adapt, just as it has during the last several centuries. Only time will show how our acceptance of death evolves, but in the meantime, I can still reminisce about the early memories of my childhood; when I was 3,500 miles away and lucky enough to mingle with the dead, staring at their permanent homes while spinning cheerily on the roundabout.